December Worries
by Nikitangel
Summary: Nikita manages to keep a secret from Michael.


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Disclaimer: Nikita is _so_ not my property. As a matter of fact, none of these characters are. I just take them out to play once in awhile and put them back where I found them.

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Spoilers: Nothing specific

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Archiving: Sure, just let me know. Nikitangel@hotmail.com

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Feedback: Any and all, even the bad stuff, but keep it constructive, would you? Please review - I always return the favor if you have fic on a series that I know.

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Notes: Set during first season

PROLOGUE 

Nikita shivered as the bitter December wind cut through her scarf. She paused to yank the stubborn coat zipper a little higher, then resumed her brisk stride. Tempting thoughts of her warm, empty apartment intruded upon her silent journey, but she merely adjusted the straps on her shoulders and pressed on. Her mittened hands burrowed in her pockets as she ducked her head into the wind. 

But she was smiling. 

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She was worried about something. 

This much Michael knew, but he had been mulling over that 'something' for quite awhile. There had been nothing on the mission to spark her restless state. In fact, he had noted the tension in her the moment he called her in that afternoon. The nervousness had continued throughout the mission. Nikita performed satisfactorily, but she was clearly preoccupied. Michael even caught her fidgeting as they waited in Van Access. 

He watched as she shrugged off Birkoff's attempts at conversation in Comm, lost in her own world. He kept track of her movements as she hurriedly turned in her equipment to Walter, forgoing their usual repartee. She glanced quickly about her, and ducked into her personal quarters in Section. 

She reappeared in moments, clasping a bag to her chest and striding her way out of Section. Her hair was haphazardly thrown into a ponytail, and she had barely changed her clothing. Her sweater scarcely covered the knife still tucked in the waistband of her mission pants. He could see the flecks of mud still clinging to her boots as she rushed by him. 

Michael's forehead barely creased. Nikita never left her mission gear on. She always made it a point to wear her own clothing out into 'the real world.' He stood there for a moment, thinking, then turned to follow her. 

"Do you have a minute?" Michael suddenly found himself standing in front of Madeline. He resisted the urge to glance back at Nikita's retreating form. Madeline smiled benignly, the sentiment not quite reaching her eyes. 

"Birkoff has picked up some new intel on Morris. I know this was Davenport's assignment, but Operations feels that with recent developments, the situation would best be handled by you." Her eyes never left his as she related the information. He didn't disappoint her. 

"Fine." The word was clipped, as always. He blinked, turning his gaze toward Comm and taking his customary step backward. 

Madeline waited until he was nearly out of earshot before calmly inquiring, "Was there something else, Michael?" He halted and turned back toward her, his face expressionless. "You seemed to be on your way somewhere. I hope we're not delaying any other plans." Her words mocked him even as they were delivered in her carefully modulated tone. They both knew exactly what Section thought of outside plans. 

Michael remained silent, evaluating her objectives and his expected response. "No." he finally responded. Her eyes flickered. Michael didn't know how to interpret that. She almost looked - amused. 

It was only after she disappeared around the corner that Michael realized he was still staring after her. He blinked, replaying the scene over in his mind as he made his way to Comm. 

Nikita awkwardly unlocked her apartment door and stumbled in, balancing her bag, coat, thermos, and a rather large chocolate chip cookie. She dumped her load on the counter and sighed. 

"Michael, I'm going to have to start changing the locks." she called into the pitch-black darkness. She flicked the light on. "What is it?" 

He didn't move from his position on her couch. Nikita unwound her scarf, tossing it in the closet while peeling off her gloves. He tried not to notice her pinkened cheeks and nose. 

"Look, I'm really very tired and I'd appreciate it if you'd just get on with whatever you're here for." She tried not to snap at him, but the man's silence was infuriating. As if she hadn't had enough to deal with already today. She stood there impatiently for a second, then huffed another sigh and made her way to the other side of the room. 

Michael only allowed himself a half-smile because he knew she couldn't see him - she was too busy blowing her nose and muttering angrily to herself. "Where were you tonight?" he finally asked. She straightened, still not facing him. 

"Michael, it's really not important." 

"Where were you tonight?" he repeated softly. She lowered her head, picking at a thread on her sweater. 

"Can't I have anything private in my life? I told you, it was nothing." She viciously yanked on the unfortunate thread. "It had nothing to do with Section, and it's really none of your business!" She turned to face him, her ire rising. 

He watched her carefully, noting the exhaustion in her eyes, her tense shoulders, her quick temper. She met his gaze angrily. He didn't push her again, just blinked and sat there. Nikita gave up her short-lived tirade and collapsed in a chair, massaging her temples. 

"Please, Michael. Can you just let it go?" she entreated. Her sanity was on its last legs, and all she wanted was to crawl under the covers and sleep. She wasn't up for a round of sparring with him tonight. 

Michael slowly nodded, still curious about her mood and unwilling to upset her further until he knew more. He got up to leave, and Nikita wearily rose to lock the door behind him. He paused a moment in the doorway, and Nikita wearily raised her eyes to his. He seemed to change his mind, closed his mouth, and walked out. She stood by the door, gathering her strength, then slowly climbed the stairs to her bedroom. She half-heartedly brushed her teeth and slipped into bed, but she couldn't relax. At least, not for another week. 

Nikita had a whole week to herself before she was called in again. 

He didn't approach her, though. He had spent the last seven days checking the surveillance on her apartment, looking for clues to her strange behavior. He had come up with nothing. There was nothing in her file to indicate the cause of her sudden tension. All the surveillance could tell him was that she wasn't sleeping much. Her restless state kept her moving, pacing, always finding something to occupy her hands. It was as though she was trying to keep from thinking about something, to distract herself. 

Michael rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he sat back in his chair. A movement outside his window caught his attention, and he glanced up in time to see Nikita hurry by, the familiar bag tossed over her shoulder. He pushed his chair back, and decided to follow her. There was no other way. 

To his surprise, Nikita passed up the entrance to the parking lot. He wondered if she had detected the tracker Section installed in her car a few months back. He watched her tug on her mittens, and was thankful he had thought to bring his own black gloves. The air seemed to cut right through his jacket. Where could she possibly be walking in this kind of weather? 

Nikita didn't seem very worried about being followed. She walked quickly, lost in her thoughts. Michael observed the way she automatically turned corners, not paying attention -- she had obviously made this trek many times before. His curiosity increased. She must have gone to great lengths to keep this a secret from him in the past weeks. 

She suddenly reached her destination, a non-descript building in the middle of the city. Well-lit, but no identifying marks anywhere. Rented office space, he surmised. She ducked in the entrance, and showed her ID to the desk clerk. They exchanged a few friendly words before she disappeared further into the building. Michael considered trying to talk his way in, but decided against it. He could investigate this place more extensively in the morning. 

Still, he didn't know if this was Nikita's only secret. He had no choice but to wait for her and follow her home. He found an inconspicuous position behind a tree and settled in. It was damn cold outside. 

It was several chilly hours later when Nikita finally emerged from the building. She was positively radiant. He could see her smile from across the street. She called a few good-bye's to the other departing people, and set off down the street. She was practically bouncing in her step. 

Michael couldn't believe the change in her. Her good humor lasted all the way to her apartment. She greeted the doorman gaily and started bounding up the stairs. Michael waited a few seconds, then entered the building. The doorman nodded to this familiar figure, letting him pass. 

He reached her doorway, then stood there for a moment, undecided. When he finally rapped the door with his knuckles, he was almost startled when she threw open the door and grinned. 

"Michael! How did I know it would be you?" She winked at him and flounced over to her couch. He blinked at her, then entered, softly closing the door behind him. He didn't know what to make of her. She had thrown herself on the cushions, lying on her stomach with her chin propped on her hands. "What can I do for you?" 

Michael glanced about the apartment, as always. "Where were you tonight?" The familiar words didn't seem to bother her. 

"Michael, tonight even you can't get to me. I'm not going to tell you, so you might as well give up now." Nikita smiled to herself, trying to imagine Michael giving up on anything. She sighed, some of her elation fading and exhaustion setting back in. 

He turned away from her, absentmindedly examining her latest creation, a half-finished wire sculpture set on her counter. "Nikita, they'll know." 

She didn't answer. He suddenly had a vision of her, bending and twisting the wire, nodding her head in time to the music in her headphones, noisily snapping her gum. This one had been one of the 3 a.m. projects, he remembered. 

"If there's something going on, you need to tell me." Silence. He remembered the bits of pink bubble gum that had stuck to her lips. He remembered watching her prick her finger on the end of one wire, then carelessly ignoring drops of blood. He remembered how the sight of that blood had affected him strongly. He remembered wishing he had been there with her, instead of being reduced to spending time with her through a camera lens. 

"Nikita, this isn't a game." When that still garnered no response, he took a deep breath and turned back toward her. 

Her eyes had fallen shut, and her even breathing indicated his wasted words. He watched her for a moment, watched the strands of hair drifting across her face. He briefly considered putting her in bed, but he had no desire to be on the receiving end of her waking blows. One did not sneak up on Nikita while she slept. 

As he turned to leave, he nearly stumbled across the bag lying on the floor next to her. The bag tipped, and several papers slid out onto his feet. He bent to put them back, and stopped cold. He read the comments scrawled across the top of the page: 

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"Nikita Samuelle. Le Première Semestre de Français, L'Éxamen Final. 98% Bon Travail." 

[Nikita Samuelle. First Semester French, Final Exam. 98% Well done.] 


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